a shower of formal ideals.
the hearts on our sleeves,
as they drowned we could hear them screaming,
"oh, what a tragic way to see our final days."
I attempt to talk up the town:
"the answers are in the arches of the 20th century towers
and in comfortable cars in motion."
and yet it still remains, this incessant refrain:
"you're just like the rest. your restlessness makes you lazy."
keeping busy is just wasting time
and i've wasted what little he gave me.
(all around) i know the conscious choice was crystal clear,
to clean the slate of former years:
when i sang softly in your ear and tied these arms around you.